prologue
You ascertain that conspiracies were just that, fiction that has spun so wildly out of control the general public has no choice but to give into a town’s folklore and accept it as undeniable truth. It wasn’t necessarily dishonest to say that the shaky proof most stood on was fraudulent, grasping at disappearing straws to make a desolate highway exit a thriving area once more. It was not your business, nor did it particularly matter what you thought, but every so often, when a tall tale would surface, you’d internally immediately begin to find plot holes wide enough to step through.
A large portion of the town was mostly dense woods anyway, and that is where many of the myths were born. In another rotation around the sun or so, most of this would become a distant memory, though the basic needs were met to make it through week by week in a school-to-occupation ratio. The disgust wasn’t permanently there, it was admittedly fun around Halloween about a decade ago, yet the fact it is so continually shoved into your face provides almost a harassing feeling.
In the last three years, you’d noticed a temporal shift among menial things, an unexplainable phenomenon you cannot believe by the evidence left behind. The overreaching general vibe just felt off, but there was no finger to point at any specifics. You weren’t admitting to the supernatural, but anyone would agree that things hadn’t felt the same since that random earthquake years prior. The news had called it aftershocks, but any easy internet search would prove that there had been no other earthquakes reported at the time in surrounding states, discrediting that resolution instantly. After that, it almost felt like extra pairs of eyes lurked around, always sensing them, but they’d vanish every time you’d turn around.
A familiar key spins effortlessly within the lock, alerting your subconscious that the door is fortuitously bolted shut. Though flawed logic, you enjoyed the trek back home, having a full understanding that comfy pajamas, a shower, and your sweet bed were within reach. The part that presented the most disquiet would be the fact you walked home alone, hands stuffed in your coat pockets as cold fingers furl around a can of pepper spray. Though things never emerged or occurred, you couldn’t count on a random happenstance, especially with Autumn fast approaching and the Halloween season re-populating the town for the week. Self-proclaimed ghost hunters and conspiracy theorists flocked to Main Street, and you could never understand why. Nothing was ever reported concrete enough that it made it past blogs and terribly edited videos, merely topics of discussion for a good laugh.
Though foolish, you’d cut through the park after night shifts to make it home as fast as possible, keeping well out of sight by doing so. It was trouble-free for the most part, as trying to keep up with the streetlights as they flickered off was too much effort, but the uneasiness never dispersed as that same feeling lingers of being watched. There were a few dirt roads that splintered and led out to the main road, so it was possible to catch passersby, you never seemed to at the late hour. Leaves crunching underfoot, you eventually reach the center of the park, a broken fountain resting among saturated grounds as the roar of a motorcycle resounds far off in the distance.
“You’re not anywhere near the sector Spots assigned you,” Streetwise is in his audial once more, not specifically nagging, but offering a warning as he’d likely get chewed out later for being negligent. Having the most, for lack of a better term, unfortunate alt-mode presented Groove with the shortest end of the stick, often having to patrol areas well beyond the populated areas to ensure no organics would uncover a motorcycle unexplainably without an operator. The energon supply was steadily approaching the negatives, meaning no holo-forms or any other expenses that would waste the fading fuel. He was beginning to become stir-crazy, and while he was somewhat grateful to be stranded here with his team, they were on the verge of making him absolutely lose his helm.
“I’m being careful,” Groove answers, wheels kicking up unsettled dirt as he weaves through the barely illuminated streets, silently impressed by the emptiness. “It’s like this town dies after eleven, there’s not a single organic around.”
“Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean someone isn’t watching,” He chides, unamused but justly so.
While Streetwise was second in command, his tone was seldom serious. It was mostly an air of caution directed at whoever was teetering on the edge of creating an unwarranted problem, a nudge to shut up and just do what was being asked of them. Rook would often joke that the police cruisers' job was to keep Hot Spot from incoming burnout, their soft-spoken leader struggling to keep the team as a cohesive unit while attempting to hail a signal from Cybertron.
“Okay, okay. I’ll head back towards base.” Relenting, he pumps the breaks, going to take an impromptu u-turn when something gives him pause, becoming entirely motionless in an instant. A shadow moves along the concrete, only viewable due to a few sparse lights along the path’s grass, headed straight in his direction.
There was nowhere to go other than straight ahead, more than likely going to bump into whatever was creating that silhouette, and that would break Hot Spot’s number one rule: “Stay out of sight,” He recalls, practically hearing the bossbots baritone voice as if he were right next to him. “It may jeopardize the mission; it is imperative we keep our covers and stay hidden.”
“Scrap,” Groove groans, killing the light that was previously floodlit at his alt-modes front. He hardly had enough reserves to make it back to base, so activating his holo-form for even a handful of kliks would be of no assistance in this scenario, and as he wracks his processor for a plan B, all he can do is slip behind the trees and pray he is well-covered.
The shortcut would cease just past a thicket of trees, having to push aside much shrubbery and overgrown weeds to make it to the start of your street. This was the most tumultuous part, as the woods were ill-illumined and often your shoes would catch on breached roots and end up tripping ungracefully. As you brave the muddied grounds, a shiver runs the length of your spine, a silent warning that something is watching, a conversant sensation. Hastily, you give pause, scanning the area over your shoulder, tempted to just take off and make it home, but that would do no good.
Against better judgment, you aversely call out a: “Is someone there?”, practically a whisper and more for self-reassurance, nothing more. A bold assumption would be that nobody would reply, and you’d carry on with a little more urgency in your steps to make it back out to the main road, forgetting this entirely.
But then a twig snaps, a ruffle of dry leaves as if someone was standing there, a figure concealed behind the vast expanse of trees. You, in turn, freeze, a breathless gasp escaping chapped lips before squeezing the can of pepper spray, yanking it free from the coat pocket.
“Who’s there?” You try once more, knowing this is a bad idea but unwilling to turn your back to an unknown assailant.
On the other hand, Groove is absolutely swearing, unsure as to what step to take next as he was never instructed on what to do if he had been seen. Confidently, he calls back to the voice. “Nobody!”
If in his bi-pedal mode, that would have unquestionably earned a face-palm. It was a jerk reaction, fearful that the organic would approach if he hadn’t answered, but to his dismay, you do that anyway. He can hear the brush crunching and moving as you arrive closer to his poor hiding spot, deciding that it was probably best to just take off and hope you could blame an empty motorcycle on whatever your version of high-grade is.
Shakily wielding the pepper spray, you slowly round the tree where the voice had called from, unsure that you could even have the reaction time to deploy it only to find a white motorbike, wheels coated in mud and intertwined in shrubbery as the central light comes to flicker on, temporarily blinding you. To vast surprise, someone yelps, as if startled by you, and not the other way around.
“What are you doing?!” Rubbing erratically at your eyes, you take two steps backward until your ankle hits something hard, losing your balance in one fell swoop that sends you straight onto your ass, into a disgusting pool of mire. The person on the bike gasps, almost sincerely as if they cared you were hurt.
“Are you okay?” He calls virtually another reflex to your unfortunate tumble. Surveying you warily, he feels entirely too exposed, unsure of what steps to take, and with a reluctant ex-vent he coms Streetwise, vexed in having to give into asking for assistance. “Problem,” Is all he says on their private channel, hoping none of the other bots had tapped into it, fearful he was going to be in prevalent trouble once again.
“Problem? What’s the problem?” Streetwise echoes back, vying for a response but receives none, throwing on his overhead sirens before tearing off to Groove’s hurriedly sent coordinates.
Groove finds himself at the other end of a small canister, green in color as you unsteadily hold it between his front bumper and your chest, impossibly tiny digits furled around it like a lifeline. He’d been uncertain to transform, but once you’d scoured the area to find who was talking, only to find it was the bike, you’d been on the verge of tears ever since.
You’d caught the black writing on his outer plating, the letters scrawled out evenly to say ‘police’, though he was not confident those were soothing at this point in time. He had tried to talk to you, even rolled his wheels slightly forward at one point, but the color had drained from your face, so he’d kept his distance instead.
“You can’t just say ‘problem’ and go radio silent!” A new voice hisses, and the flashy siren ceases once the black and white sedan approaches the mech. His anger quickly disappears as his dimmed headlights cast over a trembling form in the dirt, rivers of fluid running down rosy cheeks. “Groove…” He sighs, unconfident to decide on any ultimatum in this situation without at least running it by Hot Spot; he hates feeling so incapacitated as if his servos were tied.
Moving to discuss within their comms not to startle the poor thing any further, Streetwise asks with full exasperation: “What did you do.”
“This is not my fault!” Immediately, he hackles his defenses, but he wouldn’t expect anything less from the bot, for he fears he knows him too well. “I was actually on my way back.”
Streetwise nearly jumps as you haul yourself to your feet, seemingly relieved to see the police car, reprieve pouring out from your shivering form. “Is it…some sort of test run?” Your voice was so small, laced with exhaustion, as you attempted to wipe the tears away with the sleeves of your jumper. “It just startled me, I’m sorry.”
He realizes straightaway your unlucky understanding, fearing that if he tried to keep up with appearances, you’d come to distrust them even further. “Ah, no, it’s not quite like that-"
And at his diffident answer, you realize it’s truth as no officer comes to emerge from either of the doors, your heart sinking deep into the bottom of your stomach. Now, the pepper spray comes to be raised once more, tensions brimming and threatening to boil over, gaze tearing between the both of them.
“Might as well,” Groove sounds as if he’s going to do something injudicious and rash, and to no surprise, he does well beyond that.
While Groove was a small and lithe mech by Cybertronian standards, mostly due to his bike alt-mode, he was still effortlessly twice your height as he transforms, hitting the Earth with an unceremonious thud. If they weren’t trying to be quiet, Streetwise likely would have shouted, but all he can do is try to remain calm and grab ahold of the situation before it blows further out of control.
To no one’s wonder, your eyes jump wide, joints locking as if the overwhelming fear within temporarily indisposed you. Your jaw falls, eyes moving from the ground all the way up to Groove’s cerulean visor, a heedful smile atop his faceplate as you try to scream, but nothing yields, grip going slack on the canister.
“Bolts for brains- are you serious?!” Streetwise feels awful, watching as tears well in those petrified eyes once more, joints and appendages shuddering at the sight as your neck tilts back to assess the state of affairs. “You’re not helping!”
Groove had walked the line for the better part of the time they’d been on Earth, but he had never crossed it, a notion they all had solace in. He was not reckless per se but having the most curiosity and a heightened sense of exploration, it would be fair and logical to say he would be the mech to worry about in nightly patrols when roaming too far from base.
“No?” He looks at Streetwise, then back to you, only to fathom he really wasn’t, not by any stretch of the sense. “No, no I’m not.” He feels downright horrible that you’re so scared, deciding to hold his servos out, dropping down to a knee about a dozen feet or so away from you.
"How do you suggest that I try to explain this one?” You find that when they exchange words with each other, they almost bicker as if they were siblings and worried about being told on, sarcasm heavy. Though insanity would claim most of your thoughts, you found the courage to sputter out a question, as they’d made no move to harm or hurt you thus far, wondering the obvious.
“What the hell is going on?” The white one, the one that was once the motorcycle, looks over at you and tries to gather some empathy to put himself in your position, as you haven't quite stopped trembling yet. You’ve fairly earned the right to have your defenses on high, a whirlwind of confusion, and are the least owed an explanation, even if it is a shitty one.
“Surprise,” He tries, much to Streetwise’s prompt dismay. “You found us,”
“I hate you,” The sedan muses, popping open his passenger side door, just nearly missing the mech’s back legs, to which he jolts to some degree. “I’ll explain what I can, just…what may we call you? Do you have a designation?”
After he said it, he grasps how moronic it sounds, asking such a casual question to someone who’d sooner dart off into the woods than make any stab to answer it. To his disappointment, you sputter a laugh, high on delirium or whatever hallucination you’d concocted to believe such imagery.
Groove frowns, disenchanted by your reaction, but tries his best to hold that emotion like a poor hand against his chassis. He hadn’t essentially imagined what it would be like to interact with an organic, but at this very moment, he would never have anticipated it would be such a delicate method.
After such an untimely wheeze, you feel a bout of guilt, an inconsistent perception when all your legs beg is to just leave, but you find your shoes glued to the dirt. “Sorry.” You murmur, an automatic response, yet you still take three languid steps rearward. “Call it like it never happened?”
You’re retreating, Streetwise uncovers rather quickly, creating enough space between you and them to run between the trees where they could not, lest not as expertly as something so small. A thought passes his processor that he could just leave the interaction as such, ensuring somehow that Groove would keep his trap shut about it, but the betrayal of Hot Spot is likely what would sting the most. Instead, he ex-vents once more, scanning the area, knowing that they’d have to wrap this up now to keep the revelation to one organic interaction and not more unwanted regards.
“No, I’m afraid not,” He implicitly signals to Groove, making sure he understands you’re about to take off, to which the dumbaft astonishingly understands. “Is there something we can do to prove that we won’t hurt you?”
“I’m good,” You prattle, though it doesn’t answer his inquiry. “I’m going home, and you guys can do whatever it is…that you do.”
Perhaps you were in a state of shock, if that is the only rational explanation for your scattered thoughts. And as if Streetwise wasn’t already about to offline Groove, he surveys the mech circumspectly as he reaches out a servo, as if to shake your hand.
“Groove.” He says, watching your eyes bounce between his hand and his brightened eyes. When you make no exertion to accept the greeting, the one now named Groove gestures to the other car with his head, apparently unbothered. “The other guy is Streetwise.”
A significant urge to scream overtakes you, building in your throat, taking in his indication with utmost caution. It was a handshake, a peace offering, but there was no blatant sensibility to be found between the three of you, so in fear of worsening an already difficult situation, you shuffle forward judiciously.
“y/n,” Spoken hoarsely, you slowly lift your hand to settle it in Groove’s palm, dwarfed immediately as he delicately closes his servo around yours, a deftness Streetwise had never known him to have.
“I will take you home.” The police cruiser whispers, wordlessly urging the other mech to transform to save their cover if anything could be salvaged from the evening. “Groove, go, and don’t say anything, please,”
The motorcycle knows he’s referencing the eventual run-in with Hot Spot, in that he will save himself the chewing out until Streetwise returns. It would be a little less intense coming from the second in command, as Groove knows he probably wouldn’t be successful in hiding his excitement over an apologetic nature whilst reciting the interaction.
“Pleasure,” He rumbles before slipping his hand free, standing from his previous spot, and transforming in one fluid motion. “And, I owe you one, Streets.”
“Whatever.” Gruffly replied, annoyance was prevalent at his partner, but in a much gentler tone, he followed up swiftly. “y/n, please trust that I would never do anything to hurt you. I’m supposed to protect organics, not damage them.”
Now he’s addressing you as the motorcycle takes off, the only remanent that it was ever there was its engine in the distance. You’re supposed to trust law enforcement, police vehicles semblances of safety and protection, but not when they operate without drivers and are giant talking robots. If you lived in a more technology-centered city, perchance this instance could be perceived as a little more believable, though the newest car local police had was a 1999 Ford Crown Victoria.
“Trust?” A small sob is stifled, only to find that you still were crying inadvertently, tears gathering in twin rivers at your chin. “I don’t…”
“You’re scared and tired, I’m sure.” He’s right, but you won’t give the satisfaction in commending him for it. “C’mon, the faster you get in, the faster I can get you home.”
Presenting your reluctance, you drag your feet the outstanding distance before standing just shy of the open door, peering inside to find, once more, not a single soul behind the wheel.
“Is that okay?” He enquires as if exhibiting concern. To dampened delight, you actually nod, still perturbed but willing to enter his interior without heavy coaxing, a small victory. With a deep breath, your hand finds the handle of the sedan, carefully maneuvering yourself into the leather of the seat, jittery as the door slams closed and the seatbelt is latched into place across your waist all at once.
“Sorry, first time.” He murmurs, entirely too indifferent to your near negligible weight in the passenger seat, though no one had ever sat there before. Though known to be extremely resourceful and resilient, Streetwise couldn’t help but inwardly fret, even if you were in the safety of his cabin.
On the other hand, you want to ask with what, but before it can be uttered, the gearstick at your left is thrown into reverse, and the car treads back down the dirt path, patiently awaiting your address. It takes a grander minute, in disbelief as the wheel now spins without hands to move it, and once he enters the main street, that is when you shake the motionless sensation from your shoulders.
Quietly, you give him your home address, to which his center screen alights happily. “Thank you,” Streetwise suspires, throwing on his left blinker as he approaches a red light. “I take it you’d understand about not telling anyone about this?”
“I don’t think anyone would believe me,” You burnish some lingering tears off your cheeks, the heel of your palm splaying over warm skin as you realize he’s awaiting a real answer. “But yeah, sure. Secrets safe with me.”
“Excellent,” As if it was that informal as if your word meant a lot more than anything else, the mech agreeable to most things without as much of a second thought.
“Welcome back, Groove,” Hot Spot’s voice is discernible from anywhere, deep in pitch and full of kindness that you would not expect from a bot of his stature. Groove had tried his very best to make it back undetected, but of all mechs to be on communications duty that rotation, it had to be Spots, a miserable discovery. “You are early.”
“Yeah…” Farthest from being a good liar, he rocks gingerly on his pedes as the chair swivels, revealing a raised brow from the leader at his trailed-off reply. He knows he’s being deceitful, not even remotely bidding to hide it in his tone. “Streetwise had said he’d explain. Primus knows I’m already in trouble, so I’ll save the back and forth, and I'll just-"
He departs down the hallway, not leaving any room for an argument, nor for Hot Spot to even open his mouth. It didn’t appear urgent, but it didn’t satiate the tense feeling in his chassis, so he decided to check in with Streetwise to calm that overflowing anxiety if anything.
You jump in the seat as the screen flashes an incoming call, fleetingly startling the mech himself as well. “Scrap,” He groans, reluctantly answering the message. “Spots, Hi.”
“I just had the strangest conversation with Groove.” A thought passes by to punch the slag out of the motorcycle later, but he shelves that for a much less intricate time. “And you are headed in the opposite direction of the base. Care to explain?”
The rearview mirror tilts your way, catching your blanched expression at the newcomer’s voice after finally beginning to come around to Streetwise’s mindless chatting. “Precious cargo,” He answers, turning down your street, striving to end the conversation as soon as possible without muddling it any further. “I’ll explain as soon as I get back.”
Hot Spot trusts Streetwise very much so. And that faith has never been abused, so even with his dance around the response, he forfeits. “Very well. Safe travels.”
After the line clicks dead, Streetwise answers your query without having the chance to solicit it. “That’s the bossbot. If it makes you feel any better, I’m in trouble,” He laughs, smoothly pulling up the curb just next to your mailbox, wheels coming to an even stop. “It’s been fun, y/n, though I’m sure you’ll disagree. But I have to say, it probably won’t be the last you’ll see of us.”
“Secrets, right.” The passenger door sways open simultaneously as the seatbelt releases, presenting you with a free and clear escape route. Streetwise had done exactly as he said he would and was overly compassionate and patient about it when he had every right not to be, a much nicer attitude towards you than you'd originally expected. “Good night.”
While the goodbye was a bit rigid, he appreciated it greatly, nonetheless, watching you drag yourself onto the sidewalk and up the stairs, promptly unlocking the door and entering, never sparing a glance over your shoulder.
The drive back was taxing, several weaving routes spinning over and over in his processor at how Hot Spot would react. He knew well enough to anticipate his disappointment, a spark-crushing feeling, but he could recover from such transgressions. Upon his arrival back to base, the door slides open at his proximity, and waits until the metal has touched the floor before transforming.
When he entered the command center, he was briefly stunned to find Hot Spot leaning up against the dashboard, arms crossed and displaying his infamous disheartened stare. “Precious cargo?” He repeats, to which the white mech falters greatly.
The childish part of him wants to yank Groove from whatever berth he’s hidden under and drag him out here to explain himself, annoyed that he’s left him to mop up his mess. But he knows better and discerns that Hot Spot’s concealed frown will only deepen, so he takes the bait as an adult, as much as feasibly possible. “Yeah. Groove ventured a little too far off from his patrol sector, and a human ended up seeing him,”
“Wonderful." The ex-vent that leaves him is stressed, a servo pulling free to outspread across his helm as if in disbelief. "You are confident it was an isolated incident?”
“Just the one, I swear. I got there pretty fast,” He raised his hands, motioning that he was going to elaborate. “I didn’t…I didn’t know what the right thing was to do. We always say to keep out of sight, but there was never a solution of what to do when we don’t.”
“You were correct to take them home,” That dissolves some of the worry, but not all of it, as he senses more was to come. “To answer your question, I do not know either. This is just another stressor to add to the ever-growing pile,”
“What if it wasn’t?” Crossing the room, Streetwise approaches the computer and adds your address to the map, pinpointing it clearly in their embarrassingly short list of important areas. “I mean, we’ve been here for years and have been unsuccessful in reaching Cybertron the entire time. This interaction might be more helpful than we realize.”
Instead of immediately shutting down the idea, Hot Spot steps up beside him, surveying the map vigilantly. “How so?”
“It would solve the immediate vehicles without drivers’ problem,” He begins to count off his digits. “Might help us in doing repairs to the ship, in getting equipment we can’t.” When Hot Spot goes to reprimand him for suggesting using a person as a means to benefit themselves, Streetwise continues without registering the preliminary apprehension. “And Primus knows we’re all starting to get on each other's cables. I mean, y/n was fragging horrified, but they came around towards the end." A thoughtful pause. "I think so, anyways.”
“I’m sure you are aware of what may come of this,” Hot Spot rumbles, servo coming to pat Streetwise gingerly on the back. “I now see your reasoning, though most of the other things come with time and will. This is only if y/n wishes to assist us, and that is rather large if.”
“I wasn’t-“ He starts, but Hot Spot dismissively waves a hand, as if he understood and needs not to hear more.
“I know.” Hot Spot always does, but this time it was different. “Perhaps we take it one rotation at a time.”
After you’d slammed the door shut and flipped all the locks, you set out on an imperative mission, high on residual adrenaline. All the curtains were now drawn, each window triple-checked to ensure they were truly sealed, you made your way around the house, securing the fortress. You sincerely hoped he was joking when he mentioned offhand about seeing them again.
Perchance, he meant randomly around town, but now every vehicle that passed you by would have you on edge, a tightening spreading in your chest. “Stupid,” You mumble, meandering upstairs until you reach your bed, hardly changing into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before crashing, not even caring to double-check the bathroom to see if an intruder had ventured in there.
The next morning arrived far faster than you’d care to admit, after tossing and turning for a better part of the a.m. when sleep would arrive, but not last. Every passing light felt like it was a set of eyes watching you, observing, prey waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. You’d wanted to believe that everything was a bad dream, but after stumbling out of bed, the unused can of pepper spray had rolled out of your coat pocket, still unused and somewhat caked with greenery.
Gathering paramount courage, you scoop a half-dirty sweatshirt off the floor and throw it over your head to make a short trip to the grocery store. You didn’t want to leave the house, but after working eight days in a row, your fridge proved bare, and ordering takeout would start to accumulate high costs faster than you’d care to think about. After a quick hair combing and teeth brushing, you blundered down the stairs to grab your bag, just where you’d left it on the front door handle, an easing sight.
A thought passes by that possibly you should look out the window to ensure that there was not an unfamiliar vehicle at the curb, but with a shaky sigh, you shrug that paranoia free. There was no way that Streetwise or Groove had come back here, sitting in your driveway as if waiting for you to leave the house, nearly laughing because they had to have deleted your address from their whatever’s-
“y/n!” He chirps like he’s happy to see you. “Good morning!”
There was the same black and white police cruiser sitting in your driveway; the window rolled down as if you needed to hear him better. The first time, you’d try to ignore it, slowly making your way down the porch steps to dart past him down the drive, but either by unawareness or tenacity, he would not be having any of it. “How’d you recharge?”
Feeling a familiar twinge of guilt once more, you at least return the greeting, though reluctant. “Morning,” You answer, finally taking in his question. “Recharge?”
“Sleep, I meant sleep,” He corrects, elated to find you’ve stopped to talk, and don’t seem overly irritated about it. “Looks like you didn’t get enough,”
“Had some stuff on my mind,” You offer a dry laugh, trying to entertain the notion that you were still speaking somewhat casually to a car.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced, but bossbot wants a word with you,” That tightens the already wound pit in your stomach, dismayed, for that was the reason he’d returned, at least so damn soon. “Got a few questions, nothing crazy. Procedure and all that gab,”
You frown, nose wrinkling distastefully. “Right now?”
He returns your question with the simple opening of the passenger side door. “Promise I’ll leave you alone after you do,” Streetwise proposes, despite an air of melancholy in his tone. “Unless you decide otherwise. I think the saying goes, ‘The ball is in your court’? I heard it on the radio once,”
He’s sociable, you’d give him that, and while everything in you screamed to leave this alone, some grander inquisitiveness got the better of you. “I was about to go grocery shopping…” Meekly, as if it would make a difference.
“Oh yeah?” His wheels roll ever so slightly backward, engine buzzing. “Let’s make a deal. You come to have a quick chat with Spots, and I’ll take you to the store right after.”
“Spots?” You repeat, confusion evident. You briefly recall in your hazy memories Spots, the one who had called while he was taking you home, the one he mentioned being in trouble with, only adding to your culpability, even if it shouldn't.
“Hot Spot. That’s my boss,” Talking to you is different, even if it’s a humdrum conversation such as this, but he still finds it interesting. “I call him Spots, he's a pretty easygoing mech.”
With vast hesitation, you look to the left, then the right, heart rate seeping high, eventually relenting in your stubborn outlook. For some outrageous reason, you believed him, even if every survival instinct left within you screamed and kicked no. He was honest about taking you home and leaving you unharmed and had even been forthcoming that it probably would not be the last you'd see of them, so you found no falsehood when he said after this, the decision would be yours. Some things just take getting used to, you suppose, and while you're positive the lunacy of this would never fade, you're also pretty sure Streetwise would never leave you alone if you didn't comply.
“Oh, alright,” You sigh, defeated. “Fine, but not for long, okay?”
"For sure. Won't take that long at all." Streetwise has a challenging time suppressing his elation as you re-enter his cabin once more, vigilantly placing your bag on the floor mats between your feet after the seatbelt clicks into place. You’ve realized what you’ve done just as the heavily tinted windows roll upward, successfully sealing you in the interior with a simple thump of the door, watching your house disappear in the exterior mirror as he drives down the asphalt.